


Carmen

by thewolfhoundandlittlebird



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: F/M, Laszlo doesn't know when to stop.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 05:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20902463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfhoundandlittlebird/pseuds/thewolfhoundandlittlebird
Summary: It's like Netflix & chill for 1896.





	1. Chapter 1

"Have you ever touched yourself?"

Mary's breath hitched and she felt a queasy drop in her stomach. She stared wide-eyed at the man who'd asked the question, her hand gripping, white-knuckled, onto a silver tray.

He'd come in this morning with some kind of epiphany; an air about him as if he'd made a breakthrough discovery to the case they'd been working on. And now, they all stood around the large table in the middle of the study, piles of books and papers strewn about, discussing _Psychopathia Sexualis_. 

"You can't ask someone that, Laszlo," Mr. Moore cut in, though several seconds after she should have replied, had she been keen. Perhaps he wanted to know, too.

Dr. Kreizler let out a puff of air, that half-smile of his on his lips; stuck his good hand in his pocket. "There's nothing wrong with masturbation, John."

Miss Howard adjusted her coat sleeves and cleared her throat, suggesting a subject change. "I hardly think this is appropriate."

"He's repeating some kind of past trauma," Dr. Kreizler went on to explain, as if it made anything more appropriate at all. "And if we can figure out what it is, then maybe it will lead us to more clues." He was looking at the two of them when he said it, his detective friends, but then he turned to Mary, waiting for the answer to his original question. He raised his eyebrows, "What do you think about?"

Truth be told, she couldn't say if she would have answered or not, but she gave him a hard look, her eyes slightly narrowed, and slapped the tray down at her side before turning around. _I'm not going to answer that_... _at least not here_. 

She could hear the three of them start up again as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, her heart still hammering in her chest from his sudden interest in such an intimate detail. Why would he have asked her, and not one of the other two?

* * *

She'd spent the rest of the day vacillating about whether she should answer him or not. On the one hand, it really _was_ none of his business. And certainly, not as an employer. But she'd noticed, over the years, that Dr. Kreizler had no idea where to draw the line. On the other, she wondered what his reaction might be. There must have been a reason that he'd asked _her_ and not the other two. Was it foolish to think he was actually curious, and not just trying to prove a point to his colleagues at her expense? 

Mary stirred the pot of soup on the stove, absent-mindedly as her attentions wandered elsewhere, to the smell of an ink-stained shirt, to the view up at him while she knelt to remove his boots. To his hand catching hers as she stood up, the feel of his chest under her palm, the prickle of his beard as she kissed him. To the cool of the sheets under her when she woke up in the middle of the night thinking of him, those same thoughts.

* * *

Mary ladled the soup into his bowl; cream and potatoes and fresh spring vegetables, and studied his face while he chewed on something he meant to say. She placed the rest of the serving dish down in front of him, turned to leave. 

"Mary," she heard, her back to him, a foot away from the hallway. She turned, her hand on the jamb. 

He sucked in a breath, that long pause that she sometimes hated. Would it be salve or salt? Her other hand found her apron, her thumbnail pushing at the edge of it. He knit his eyebrows, talking to the bowl now instead of her. "I'm sorry."

She cocked her head as his eyes met hers again. She knew what he meant, but she didn't have to let him off so easy. She'd make him say it.

"For earlier. I'm sorry for what I asked you earlier. It was inappropriate." His lips pressed in that almost-smile; the one he got when he was satisfied with his words. "Please forgive me."

She nodded, keeping her eyes locked on his, praying that her expression betrayed nothing. He furrowed his brows again, studying her. Deciding if that was a response to his search for forgiveness or not. 

She turned toward the hallway slightly, keeping an eye on him in her periphery, and she saw the smile creep up on his face as he understood. Too quick for his own good sometimes. "You didn't answer my second question." 

_Really; the gall_. 

He'd sent her to classes, once upon a time, for sign language. He'd hoped that it would make her feel more comfortable communicating -- really, she knew it was probably that he just wanted to ask her more questions. She may not have used it frequently in her day-to-day life, but she _knew_ that she knew more than he did. And so she felt confident as she turned to face him directly again, a defiant look in her eyes. 

_"Yes; if you must know," _she signed quickly, in the hopes that maybe he wouldn't catch all of it. _"You want to know what I think about? Must you know? How could you not?" _The doctor watched as her hands flew, and she inched closer to him without realizing it. _"I think about a man, running his hand up my arm, down my back, kissing my neck, laying me down; having me." _

She was halfway down the table, closer to him now, and she realized how far she'd drifted when she saw him contemplating her words; looking at her in a different hue than he had before.

"Interesting," he said finally. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until he spoke. _When had he learned any of that?_

Fine, then.

_"And you?" _she challenged. He raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth to speak -- as Stevie burst in. 

"Doctor," he panted, "it's Roosevelt. Says he needs to see you in his office right away."

"Thank you, Stevie," he nodded, pushed his chair back as the boy ran out to the stables. He regarded her, "Another time, then." Excusing himself, he nodded and headed in Stevie's direction.

_Perfect timing, Stevie,_ she thought chidingly.

* * *

The doctor knocked on her door; _what hour was it?_ She didn't bother to light her lamp, just swung her legs out of bed and padded over to the door in her nightgown. She opened it, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and the doctor regarded her. She noticed that his eyes lingered on the thin cotton at her chest.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Mary," he said quietly, low enough that she had to lean in to hear him. His features were barely illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window opposite, but she was glad she hadn't lit the oil lamp by her bed; something seemed more intimate here in the dim lighting. "I was thinking about what you said," he stated matter-of-factly. "And what you asked."

She folded her arms across her chest, a subtle defiance. He was always the one asking questions, and the _one time_ she got to, she didn't get her answer. Still, his eyes drifted back down again to the now-stressed fabric, and she felt a small thrill shoot through her core that he was paying such attention to that particular area. 

"The answer is," he swallowed, looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes again, "I do. I think of you."

Her insides electrified. Had he really just said what she thought he did?

He must have, because soon he was closing the distance between them, apparently putting action to fantasy. She only had a second to react to his advance, unfolding against him as his lips met hers, tender and soft and yearning, and she slid her hands into his hair, an unfamiliar moan reverberating in her throat. 

He pulled back. "I don't know why I haven't done that before." She held him to her, a hand around his neck, another sliding down, her palm over his heart. "But I don't think I'll be able to resist again." She stood on her tip-toes, instigating this time, and their kiss quickly deepened. She could feel his good arm wrap around her, his hand at her rib cage, then the small of her back, bunching up the fabric as it drifted lower, urging her out of her nightgown. 

She backed them up into her room, his tongue sliding against her lip, seeking entry. She fumbled with the buttons on his waistcoat in the dark while he dragged the hem of her nightgown up higher and soon, she felt the cool of the night air against the bare skin of her backside, the warmth of his skin on it. He broke their kiss to move his attentions to her neck as she slid off his jacket and waistcoat, and she was certain he'd leave a mark at her pulsepoint come morning. 

He'd just moved further south, having abandoned his previous task to try to work at the buttons on her collar, a quite lovely sensation pooling betwixt her legs, and--

_RAP RAP_ \-- 

_Good Lord, _she ground her teeth. Whoever was interrupting this was sure to get the full extent of her ire as soon as-- 

Oh. It was morning. Mary blinked weakly in the morning light, Cyrus's voice from the other side of her door imploring her to wake. She touched her collar: the buttons perfectly fastened. She squeezed her legs together, and resented that she hadn't the time to let the rest of her dream play out. A heavy sigh, and she padded to the door to acknowledge Cyrus; let him know she'd heard him and would soon be down to make breakfast.

_Another time, Doctor._

* * *

Mr. Moore and Dr. Kreizler were on their way out of the door as she cleared the table, furious that her blush that had crept up at the first sight of the Doctor this morning persisted. She stared at his back from behind the corner of the hall, and she saw him hesitate at the door, say something to Mr. Moore.

He was coming back!

She hurried into the kitchen, setting the dishes in the wash basin, hoping that he hadn't seen her staring.

"Mary?" he said to her back, and she pretended not to hear him. She could feel her cheeks burning, and she feared what she might betray if she turned around. Could he read her thoughts? Did he know about this morning? 

He approached, just to her side now, at the counter. "Mary," he tried again, and she had to look at him this time. She turned, wiped her hand off on her apron, tried to think about _anything_ other than their imagined kisses. Her eyes darted to his lips for just a moment. "Carmen is playing at the Metropolitan Opera on Saturday."

She pressed her lips into a half-smile, narrowed her eyes a bit at him. Why was he telling her this? She folded her hands together, expectant for him to go on.

He hesitated, studying her face for a moment, and she felt like squirming under the scrutiny - surely he would know her thoughts! - but she held fast. Finally, he drew a steadying breath. "Excuse me if this is presumptuous, but..." he swallowed, nerves clearly getting the better of him. When had _that_ ever happened? "I would very much like it if you would join me." He gave a small nod of his head, a punctuation to his sentence; perhaps relief from having spoken the words.

_The opera?__!_ Her heart pounded, and she couldn't contain the smile that erupted on her face as she enthusiastically nodded _"yes.__"_

Dr. Kreizler beamed. She had never seen him beam.

"Well, then," he nodded and looked toward the door, after his friend. Mr. Moore's silhouette paced through the glass. "I should be going."

He turned, gave her a final smile, and headed away with Mr. Moore to wherever their detective work was taking them that day.

Mary's cheeks were sore by the time she was done with dishes, but she couldn't be bothered.

_He had asked her to the opera._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that I'm reading the Met archives correctly, and that _Carmen_ was playing on April 25th, 1896. I can't really tell if the city name mentioned is where the performers where visiting from, or where the NY Met Opera company was touring. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> If anyone's interested, [this is the performance I'm referring to.](http://archives.metoperafamily.org/archives/scripts/cgiip.exe/WService=BibSpeed/fullcit.w?xCID=17240&limit=500&xBranch=ALL&xsdate=&xedate=&theterm=1895-96&x=0&xhomepath=&xhome=)  
We're going to ignore, for the purposes of this story, that it notes it's a matinee.... Also, I can't seem to find any information for when a standard matinee would start.... so we're just going with show-depicted opera attendance, which was at night. And I'm thinking, like, start at 7:30 + [3 hours, 15 minutes for _Carmen's_ performance](https://tulsaopera.com/about-us/opera-101-the-basics/) \+ ~two hours? for dinner at Delmonico's = getting in the carriage to go home around 1am.
> 
> Also, I can't really find any information about whether or not Mary was able to use sign language fully as a way of communicating. I have not read _The Alienist,_ so am relying on what's portrayed in the shows. There are a few scenes where it shows her saying "thank you," and offering to wash Laszlo's shirt. For this story's purposes, I assume that she's had some training in American Sign Language, and that Dr. Kreizler had sponsored it, as he did for Cyrus's niece. Interwebs searches hint that aphasia may or may not affect the ability to use sign language, and depends on which part of the brain is damaged. It _seems_ like Mary's brain isn't _damaged,_ but rather that her condition is her body's way of dealing with the trauma inflicted on her in her past. So, I think it would probably be safe to say that this might be a viable means of communication for her, and just doesn't get used all that frequently (in the show).
> 
> I pulled my dress information from [this blog post](https://lilyabsinthe.com/2018/05/17/1890s-style-evening-wear-part-4/), and had [this dress in mind](https://i1.wp.com/lilyabsinthe.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/65-184-65a-b_front_cp4.jpg?resize=676%2C961&ssl=1), despite being from 1898. [Just something about it looked so ethereal.](https://i2.wp.com/lilyabsinthe.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/65-184-65a-b_side_cp4.jpg?resize=676%2C911&ssl=1) I'm hoping, [based on this](http://staatsburghstatehistoricsite.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-house-of-worth-designer-fashion-in.html), that dresses would be available to be purchased & tailored at some kind of [storefront](https://www.history.com/news/how-19th-century-women-used-department-stores-to-gain-their-freedom) within a week.
> 
> And of course, we have [the handsome Dr. Kreizler.](https://d.newsweek.com/en/full/861059/alienist-episode-10-castle-sky-finale.jpg?w=1600&h=1600&q=88&f=9e4d0f03656b479393fc761e2a5c0ad4)

Mary ran her hands down the skirts of the dresses on the mannequins, the sunlight streaming in through the store-front windows glinting off of sequins and bugle beads. She'd never worn a dress so fine! Sara seemed unenthused, or maybe she was used to it, being in a class of privilege, but she smiled over at her anyway. “_Thank you,”_ Mary signed, and the other woman nodded, a file folder in one gloved hand and the other reaching out to appraise the fabric of the dress Mary was interested in.

"You'll look lovely in it," the blonde offered, and Mary's heart warmed a little. She's been so jealous ever since this woman had entered the institute's doors; she'd taken the Doctor's attention, had captivated him with her intelligence.... had been able to communicate with him in a way she knew she'd never be able to match. But, she'd also only ever shown her kindness; had helped her pick up the broken china, had shown concern at his outburst over breakfast, and now, on short notice, had come to assist her with selecting and tailoring a dress.

Sara inspected the buttons running up the back of the bodice. "You'll need help getting in it, though. Come by my house before the opera; Tessie will be able to help you."

Mary smiled, nodded, watched as Sara advised the salesperson and the tailor to assist her friend with anything she needed. She'd had to go after that, but the tailors had taken good care of her, despite not being a regular customer. Something about this particular tailor and the name dropping of her friends had warranted an expedient visit, and soon she was on her way back to the house, her gown to be delivered later in the week.

She smiled all the way home, thinking of what his face might look like when he saw her.

* * *

The night of the opera came more quickly than she could have anticipated, as she hurried out the door to the carriage that had been sent for her. She ran through her mental checklist; making sure that she hadn't forgotten any thing. It was only when they were most of the way to Sara's house that she remembered she hadn't let the Doctor know to meet her there.

But he would know, surely? He would figure it out?

_Yes. Yes, it would be fine_, she thought, as the carriage pulled up outside Sara's house, her stomach a knot of nervous excitement and anticipation at what the night would bring.

"Ah, you must be Miss Palmer," Tessie, she assumed, greeted her when she rang the doorbell. "Well, come on then," she ushered her in.

* * *

Tessie led her to a room down the main hall, a guest room perhaps, and motioned to the gown hanging on the outside of a wardrobe. "They delivered it yesterday."

She closed her eyes as she ran her hand down the iridescent silk; imagined the look on his face. That half-smile. She pictured him reaching a hand out to touch her, running it down the flowers at the sleeves, down her shoulder, even though she knew he wouldn't. She wasn't even sure what had come over him this past week – whatever it was that had caused him to invite her to the opera – but she was fairly certain, if the last ten years were to be any indication, that nothing would really come of this night. These were all just fantasies, ones that she would no doubt treasure for the rest of her life... still, her heart warmed at the thought of him appreciating her in this way; in the same way that she appreciated him…

...In the same way she loved him.

* * *

"Mary?" Laszlo couldn't help the completely unfamiliar bubbles in his stomach; a tempest at thinking of upcoming events. He walked down the length of the foyer, into the kitchen. _Where was she?_ John would be there soon, and they needed to be ready to leave. He checked his pocket watch. 6:35. The opera started in less than an hour.

"Mary?" He tried again, heading up the stairs. He'd get ready, at least. Maybe she was just out of earshot.

But just as he was fastening his cufflinks, he heard the doorbell. _John_.

And still no Mary.

He should have known. A pit fell in his stomach. Why should he have thought that she would go with him? He thought of the way she'd looked when he asked her; she seemed like she had been interested. He'd been a fool to think so.

But accompaniment notwithstanding, he had made an obligation to attend tonight, and as he heard Cyrus answer the door, heard footsteps on the wood floor in the entryway, he grabbed his jacket bitterly and headed downstairs.

John seemed surprised when he descended the stairs. "Where's Mary?" he asked unhelpfully, rubbing salt into it.

"I don't know," he cocked an eyebrow, pursed his lips. "Come on; we'll be late."

John looked perplexed as he passed by him, heading to the carriage Stevie had readied. "Have you seen Mary?" he asked Cyrus as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"No, sir," he said, eyebrows furrowed. "Was she coming?"

He gave a slight shake of his head, looked up at Stevie; "No, sir. Not since this morning."

"Very well then," he lied. "Miss Howard's, please."

John climbed in after him, narrowed his eyes and waited for an explanation out of his friend. He wouldn't get one.

* * *

"Please, Laszlo, don't trouble yourself," John rolled his eyes as they waited outside Sara's house. He'd been poor company the whole ride over, and frankly, John was glad to leave the carriage. Let him simmer. He hadn't really thought anything of this evening until a few hours ago: he hadn't known to be expecting Miss Palmer, and though he'd been known to be slow to catch on to things, he quickly noted that her absence had put his friend in this mood.

He'd thought – again, up until a few hours ago – that this was some kind of case-related opera performance. But as he walked up the steps to her house, he chuckled to himself that his friend had meant for this to be some type of double-date. He certainly hadn't been informed of it until recently; he wondered if Sara had. Either way, he'd probably done something to spite Mary again, and she'd stood him up. _Good_. He felt moderately sad for his friend, but –

"Sara," he breathed, as she opened the door, as wonderful as ever; the deep blue taffeta of her gown complementing the sparkle in her eyes. She’d punch him again if he ever said anything of it, though.

"Good evening, John." She smiled at him, adjusted the edges of her capelet, looked over his shoulder to the carriage waiting at the curb.

"Shall we?" he offered his arm, but she turned to look back into her foyer; and – _I'll be damned_ – Miss Palmer emerged, her head bowed and clearly trying to hide a smile. She was failing at that, but he found himself laughing at this whole thing.

My God, how could he have been so blind?

"He thought you weren't coming," he noted quietly as she passed by him.

"Whoa," Stevie noted from the carriage, and John saw Laszlo's head turn through the window at the exclamation. Saw him duck his head to hide his smile.

_Good God; these two._

* * *

John and Sara were halfway up the steps to the Met, leaving the other two behind to sort themselves out. She'd spent the majority of the ride over trying to make meaningful eye contact with him, but, for one, it was difficult in the dark carriage, and two, he wouldn't let his eyes linger for more than a couple seconds. She wished he'd calm himself; a ball of nervous energy. She wished she could tell him so.

They stood at the bottom of the steps, Cyrus having long since escorted their carriage away, eyes darting toward the concert hall for lack of somewhere else to roam. She heard him suck in a breath, chanced a look over at him; and found his eyes wandering across her face.

"I thought..." that half-smile, "...I thought that you weren't coming."

She shook her head; _why __ever __would I not_?

"When you weren't at the house..."

Gently, she brought her hands together: "Stop." He let his eyes travel from her hands back up to her face; she noted they lingered for a moment in between, and it sent a shockwave through her. Half-smile, one- two- a dip of his head. She wanted to hold his face, make him look at her, but instead, she reached out her hand; touched her fingertips to his forearm – the bad one.

"_I'm here now,_" she signed.

He looked at where her hand had been, sighed nervously. "Yes, you are." _Oh, those eyes._ Good heavens, she could drown in them. He met hers, stuck out his chin, and there was something across his face that she hadn’t seen before. Perhaps touches of it, but this was different. "You look beautiful, Mary."

The opera was an entirely new experience for Mary. She’s listened to most of them by now; either in the background while the Doctor took his repast, or while she was cleaning the house, but she’d never attended one.

And there, in the dim lighting of the hall, Carmen and all of her supporting cast came alive! She found herself, a few times, accidentally grabbing on to his arm in excitement when the children came out in their colorful matador costumes, or when Carmen tricked Don José – Carmen’s death! And she found herself sympathizing with Micaëla – she loved him and then he was stolen! And the Habanera! She thought of all the times she’d heard it before; adding this new happy memory to those, too.

Her enjoyment was plain on her face, peering through the opera glasses, a persistent smile throughout the night, underscored when she’d look over at the Doctor, his eyes darting away from her as soon as she’d turn around; trying to pretend that he’d been watching _the opera_.

John and Sara, on the other hand, looked like they had much better things to do. On more than one occasion, she’d heard snoring coming from the back of the box, and she saw Sara’s eyes roaming the attendees rather than the performance more often than not.

So, when the curtains had lowered, and they waited outside for their carriage to meet them, she wasn’t surprised when they excused themselves.

“It’s getting very late,” Sara folded her hands across her clutch. “Thank you for the lovely evening, Doctor Kreizler.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

John checked his pocket watch – what time was it, anyway? She was tired, but had no intention of going home just yet, if there were more in store. “Yes, it certainly seems so.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pressed his lips together in a knowing smile. “Sara, may I escort you home.”

She looked up at him, at the other two. _Oh._ “I suppose, John Moore,” she chided.

And with that, they said their goodbyes for the evening, and suddenly, it was just the two of them on the steps, again, and the air hung in between them.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, after several heartbeats, and she was glad that the edginess of his nerves had dulled a little over the evening, his voice a little steadier than it had been when they’d first arrived.

She nodded enthusiastically, making a motion with her hands, “_Starving_.”

He chuckled, a brief spot of sunlight she wasn’t accustomed to hearing from him. “Very well, then.”

* * *

Admittedly, it had been very strange being on the receiving end of dinner service. He’d taken her to Delmonico’s, evidently pre-arranged, if judging by the private room was anything to go by. And by the time the Sauternes came out, she was quite full, and tired, and frankly, ready to go home.

* * *

She wondered what Cyrus would think on the way back to their house, as she sat next to the Doctor – _her_ Doctor? – her body an inch away from his and closer than it had ever been. He’d gotten in after her, had held the door open for her and deposited himself this close, and now the cab was stark-quiet save the noise from the horses and the streets.

The passed several blocks before he spoke. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening,” his voice nervous again as he looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

She nodded reassuringly, a warm smile to his shaky breath; steadying. She reached out her hand, slid it into his palm; looked to their hands, to his eyes. But they remained fixed on the point where their skin touched, and she smirked when she saw the smile he was trying desperately to conceal.

* * *

“Good night, Mary,” he said at the foot of the stairs, and she was two seconds away from pulling him to her, from sealing this night the way that she’d dreamt of. But he was up the stairs before she got the chance to, a quick squeeze to her hand the only lasting touch as she watched his retreating form.

* * *

As she stepped into her room, she couldn’t help the giddy feeling settling over her. She held her sides, twirled around in the small space between her dressing table and bed, a smile from ear to ear. She collapsed on her bed, each memory of the night replaying in her head as she tried to settle down from her high, tried to calm herself enough to be able to sleep.

The way he’d looked at her!

The feel of his hand against hers!

_He’d introduced her _to people at the opera! They’d shared a private room for dinner! Surely, _people would talk…_ she wondered how he felt about that. If he’d even given it any thought.

She pulled the pins from her hair, setting them neatly in a pile on her nightstand, and set to the task of unwinding braids and combing out knots. She smiled wistfully.

But then she reached around to undo her dress – and found that she could only reach half of the buttons – or, at least those were the only ones she was able to undo. _Oh, no._ She thought back to Sara, that day in the store, “_You’ll need someone to help you into it, though._” Tessie had gotten her into it, and she hadn’t given any thought as to how she would get _back out_.

She ran through her options. She could Stevie. _No, not Stevie. _There was something much too little-brother-y about that, and it gave her the heebie-jeebies to think of him unbuttoning her dress for her. So, that was off the table. Cyrus? Most likely already asleep, and though he seemed to pose the least risk of any of her house-mates, she didn’t feel comfortable asking that of him.

She could wait for Sara? Perhaps she’d be by in the morning.  
  
  
Or perhaps not. And then she would be stuck in this dress for who knew how long?

She tried to wiggle her arms out from the straps, to see if she could spin the dress around get the buttons in front, but that only twisted it, made it tighter around her. This was no use.

But there was the Doctor. _Her? Doctor?_

No, she couldn’t. It wasn’t appropriate. It was presumptuous. He would think her wanton! … _Going to his room in the middle of the night to help her undress_...

* * *

Mary hesitated, her hand poised in mid-air to knock on the door, her stomach a twisted ball of nerves, roiling at both the thought of how she _wanted_ this to turn out, and how it probably would. He might scorn her for waking him…

_No, she’d wait for Sara. _

She was two steps back down the stairs when she heard the door open behind her. "Is everything alright, Mary?" She turned, a hand on the bannister, to see her Doctor, rubbing sleep from his eyes and trying to adjust to the light of her candle.

She nodded, but he gave her an appraising look. "What's the matter?"

Oh, she couldn't run from him now. Not that she'd wanted to in the first place, but what sort of awkward situation had she just created?

She retraced her steps, climbed back up those two stairs until she was level with him. She pulled her hair to the side, turned around and pointed to the buttons traveling up her back; moved her hands around the back to show him that she could only reach a few.

"Oh," he said, swallowing, his eyes still in the space her buttons had occupied, even though she'd turned around already. "Well, then... come in," he swung the door open, motioning for her to enter his room. "I'll see what I can do."

She stood in the center of his room while he busied himself with lighting a few lamps; it seemed more to stall for time than for lighting needs. But finally, he approached, as one would a timid deer, too afraid to make any sudden movements lest it run off. He settled behind her, farther away than she would have hoped, but she could still smell his cologne, the faint traces of Eau du Coq left on his skin. She felt his breath on her bare shoulders, unsteady as he examined his task.

She looked over her shoulder, saw his good hand hovering hesitantly over the top-most buttons. "May I?"

Of course he could; that's why she'd come, after all. She tittered, nodded at him through her smile.

"Of course," he repeated her thoughts, pressed his lips in that sideways half-smile she loved. "That's why you came.”

It took him some time – forever, really; but she wasn't keen on abbreviating the amount of time his hand brushed against her exposed skin while he was at his task – but he finally managed to get enough of the buttons undone so that she could finish the remainder.

"There," he breathed, and she could imagine if she were looking at him, the face he'd be making.

She didn't turn, for she didn't want the moment to end. But how long could she stay there? Then she felt him again, a finger running underneath her hair to gather it up, tracing along her neck, the individual movements of the strands as he let it fall against her back, through his fingers. Somehow, the smallest of moans reverberated in her throat, and she covered her mouth instinctively. Where had that come from?

She turned to face him, her cheeks on fire from the embarrassment – she'd just meant to thank him and be on her way, but she saw his face had turned. His eyes had grown darker – the pupils dilated as he looked at her, his mouth slightly open to draw in steadying breaths, trying to calm his nerves.

They stood there for a moment, an eternity.

How she wanted to feel him! So, she took hold of his hand, brought it up to her face and flattened his palm against her cheek.

She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek against his skin to savor the feeling.

“Mary,” he breathed, a whisper; a ghost across an ocean. She looked up, saw him studying her face, eyes to lips to forehead and all back down again, and she inched herself imperceptibly toward him. _Please. Please do it._

She reached up to touch his face, run her nails against the his jawline, and he leaned to meet her.

_Oh, good heavens!_ He pressed his lips to hers, chaste and experimental, and she saw him watching her as her eyes fluttered back open, as he pulled away; evaluating. Seeing if that had been wanted. _Of course it was,_ she pressed her forehead to his, tilted her face so encourage him to do it again.

And this time, she felt a change: a relaxation at the knowledge that she wasn’t going to reject him – _why would she?_ – and they moved against each other like she’d imagined in her dream, tender and soft and yearning. She felt his hand on her cheek, his thumb stroking the skin there, and broke their kiss, pulled back.

She could see, even in the dim light of the few oil lamps, the cloud of arousal in his eyes as he appraised her; the way his breathing had deepened. She pulled him back again, and this time, it was as if flood gates had been drawn back, ten years of wanting rushing through when their lips met again. He held her there, his hand in her hair. She searched him, resting her palms on his jaw, feeling it moving as he kissed her, fingertips against his throat, under his robe, sliding it off his shoulders. He moved to kiss her neck, and she threw her head back, more of those moans escaping her lips. She pulled at the last fastened buttons on her gown, let it pool beneath her, and he pulled back for a moment, grabbing the collar of his nightshirt at pulling it over his head.

She took a moment to appreciate his form, touched the ball of his shoulder, ran her hand down the length of his bad arm, his eyes following its movement.

“What are you doing?” his voice was low, but not angry, and he watched with hazy curiosity as she brought her hand to her lips, kissed each fingertip. He furrowed his brow, “Mary...”

But she let him go, let him hold it to himself again, as she reached back to undo the laces of her corset, and took great pleasure in the expression on his face, intensely watching her, his mouth slightly open and breath heavy. She’d never seen him like this, and she thought, rather wantonly, that she might _need_ to continue to see him like this. She stripped herself of the restrictive garment, able to feel him better as she pressed herself back against him, only the thin cotton of her chemise between her skin and his chest. She directed his hand to the ties of her petticoat as she reached up to kiss him again, run her hands along his neck and in his hair, and it was his turn to moan; a sound that sent currents running through her.

She felt the slack of the petticoat, pushed it down to join the gown on the floor, reached for the ties of her bloomers.

“No,” he shook his head, put his hand on hers. For a second she wondered if he meant _no_ to all of this, and she felt a sinking dread – _what have I done? – _until he directed her hand to the waistband of his drawers, while his returned to her ties.

_Oh._

She walked them back to his bed, ridding themselves of the last bit of clothing as they went, but when they got to the edge, he stopped.

She knew why. He knew what had happened to her before. She looked upon him, as he searched her face for any sign of regret; any sign he should stop.

But she wouldn’t have it. Not with this man. Her past couldn’t ruin this. She reached her hand up to his face, trying her very best to show him that she wanted this. She kissed him, and appreciative groan as she moved her hand down his chest, over his hip, pulled him to her, and he held her too, tongue sliding against her lip until he gained entry. He pressed against her, and not for the first time, she felt his desire, hard against her belly.

She broke the kiss, pushed against his shoulder to direct him to the bed, and he laid down, eyes on her, always. She climbed up after him, her legs on either side of him, and she slid herself against his cock. He threw his head back, hissed; an involuntary thrust of his hips under her. She moved to position herself over him, brought his bad hand to rest on her hip.

He furrowed his brow again, “Mary...”

She put a finger to his lips, bent down to kiss him while she held him there. He watched her as she righted herself, as she put a hand on his chest, her nails playing with the hair there. She smiled.

“_I love you,” _she signed, and his eyebrows raised, a smile on his lips, now, too. “_All of you.”_

She bent down to kiss him again, rested her cheek against his.

“I love you, too, Mary Palmer,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

She giggled, nodding enthusiastically as she pulled back to kiss him again.

_Of course I will._


End file.
